closed behind them; they were in the narrow hallway, which smelled of must and cookery. “Good God,” muttered Ryan; “I didn’t think you’d look like this; not like this!” Through the jar of the door at the bottom of the hall, with the stifling odour of a room at once kitchen and nursery, came a streak of yellow lamp-light. In the faint glow the two men looked at each other, the hod-carrier with shoulders white with plaster and face white with emotion, the murderer with bloodshot eyes and corroded brow, his mouth like a straight blue scar. Ryan was trembling. “Man,” he said, “what have you been doing! I never looked for anything like that when I told Nell I’d help ye!”
John Collins was silent for a moment; with a certain astonishment he saw the horror in the other’s face. A scowl deepened his brows.
“Done!” he muttered. “Done—that’s nothing to what I’ll be doin’ to ye if ye don’t shut up that jaw of yours. Is that all ye’ve to say to me”—his voice rose—“is that all, eh? And Nell, where’s Nell?”
